


Stanford in the Looking Glass

by ChromaticDreams



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Angst, Canon Compliant, Childhood to Adulthood, Gen, Grunkle Ford Needs A Hug, Grunkle Ford's Portal Adventures, Grunkle Ford-centric, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Paranoia, Possession, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Reflection, Young Grunkle Ford
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-06-10 04:42:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6940213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChromaticDreams/pseuds/ChromaticDreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanford Pines found himself looking into the mirror quite a lot over his lifetime. There were good days, days he was proud of his reflection. Other moments, he caught his doppelgänger glaring back at him in hatred for everything he'd become.</p><p>And sometimes, on his worst days he glanced into the glass and didn't recognize himself at all.</p><p>(Or nine times Stanford Pines looked in the mirror, and his reaction to what he saw reflected there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eight

**Author's Note:**

> Things are pretty light for the first few chapters, but then... we all know Ford's life turned out to be anything but idyllic. But anyways, as my first fanfic contribution to the Gravity Falls fandom, I hope you all enjoy.

______  
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**{8 years old}**

When Stanford Pines returned home from school that day, his father was miraculously nowhere to be seen.

"He just left for a- a breath of fresh air," his mother said when he asked about it, and that was that. Didn't even bother to shed a single glance at him. Her eyes were glued to the pages of her book instead. _She’s trying to distract herself_ , he realized. It hurt, but he was used to it.

"...Oh."

He wasn't entirely sure what else he expected. Suddenly feeling much smaller than he really was, the young boy shoved his scuffed hands into his overall pockets─ too-narrow pockets, which were definitely not made to hide more than five fingers─ and timidly shuffled away.

"God knows when that bastard's commin' back anyways," she muttered under her breath a short silence later. He guessed she assumed he wouldn't hear. She was wrong, of course. He heard. Unlike Stanley, who had a knack for filtering out the negative, Stanford always knew when his parents were fighting.

The weary child half-limped to his room, and dropped his school bag at the base of the bunk bed. He vaguely heard a loud hoot of noise as his twin brother entered the apartment, but before he could react his spine stiffened─ straight as a stick─ as he noticed the figure peering hurtfully at him from the other side of the mirror on the far wall. Young Stanford stared at the reflection for a long time, eyes transfixed on the slimy line of snot that bobbed in and out of his nose as he breathed, threatening to drip all the way down his face. The boy had a ruddy, blotchy complexion from recent tears. An angry purple bruise covered his left cheek. His hair hung limply over his forehead, much like the dead, limp rat Stanley found hanging over the edge of the sewer drain last week. The boy in the mirror's skinny arms and legs were stringy and weak, just like the boys on the playground told him today. His knees were bandaged and bloody. And as for his hands...

_"Hey! Don't you start cryin' at me, you loser! It ain't my fault n'body wants to play with a six-fingered freak of nature!"_

He looked down at his freakish, abnormal hands with a tight grimace. Liquid brimmed at the corner of his eyes again, and he felt so _stupid_. Why was he still crying? It'd been over an hour since it happened. It was over. He couldn't cry! Father always told him to suck it up whenever he came home in a mess like this. He said that no real man ever cried.

_"Haha, good one, Crampelter!"_

Stanford clenched his small hands into tight fists and tried to will the dumb tears away.

_"Naw, wait just a minute, it's even worse than we thought. Take a look at 'em dorky new glasses! He's not just a freak, he's a six-fingered geek freak!"_

An aching pressure built up within his chest. His small frame began to shake like a leaf, knocking rebellious water drops from the corner of his eyelids and down his cheeks. A large lump caught in his throat, making it difficult to breathe. In a desperate last attempt to stop himself from bursting into tears, he squeezed his eyes shut. Can't cry. Don't cry. Never cry... But he still felt the sting of that kid's fist against his cheek, and he remembered the throbbing in his left knee and forearms after they knocked him down to the sidewalk.

Stanley was at his side instantly to help him up and crack a joke to make him smile. He was lucky to have a brother like him. But by himself? The other kids were right. He was utterly helpless.

Friendless. Stringy. Loser. Shrimp.

_Freak._

_They think I’m a freak._

The pressure inside him hit its boiling point. Stanford's hands flew to his face. In one fluid motion, he stripped the brand new thick-rimmed glasses from where they sat on his nose and chucked them across the room. Stupid glasses! Stupid, stupid Tommy Crampelter and his stupid friends and their damn insults! He howled, weeks of pent-up frustration finally rearing its ugly face.

When he heard something shatter against the wall, he immediately snapped out of his childish tantrum. His wet eyes widened with horror.

The boy dashed to his knees, spotting the frames sitting at the base of the far wall. "No, no, _no!"_ he whimpered when he recognized the glimmer of broken glass scattered across the carpet. Gently now, he picked up the black frames. Even more loose glass shook its way to the floor at the sudden movement. Stanford swallowed hard. He was dead. A goner. Father would kill him when he got home. His parents saved up money for months to buy them both glasses, and he'd absolutely _destroyed_ his! Tears built up inside again, but this time for a completely different reason. These tears burned.

He heard the door swing wide open.

"Stanford! You okay, right?" Stanley asked, and hurried to his side. "We heard you yellin' all the way from the fro-"

His brother paused, probably taking note of the odd scene before him. The young boy clutched the broken glasses tightly now. Guiltily, even. The dams burst in the silence, and Stanford began to cry again.

"Oh," the other boy said in a hushed tone. "You broke your glasses?"

"I-I didn't mean to! It was 'n accident, I got mad, 'n I..."

Stanford's trembling voice cut off as an ugly sob pushed its way to the surface. He wiped the snot from his nose on the back of his sleeve, desperately trying to pull himself together. A warm hand found its way to his back, and gave him a reassuring pat. His breathing slowed.

"Hey, hey, it's alright, n'body's yelled at you yet. And you know what?"

He turned to look at Stanley, blinking through water and his blurred vision. The boy seemed to be... taking off his own glasses? Was he seeing this correctly? Sure enough, Stanley offered his hand to him, identical black frames in his palm.

"No one ever has to," he declared with a crooked smile.

Stanford blanched, looking back and forth. From him to the glasses. Back to him, and then to the glasses again. Was his brother really suggesting that he take Stanford's blame? "You want me to-" he spluttered out. "B-but I _can't_ take yours. I can't! Father'll kill you, and it was my mistake!"

"Please, just take 'em," he insisted, pushing them closer. "Didn't we promise to always have each other's backs? And I hate 'em, anyways."

"S-Stanley, I- I can't..."

Stanley grinned, showing off that gap where he'd recently lost a front tooth. He took Stanford's closed fist and opened it, and no resistance was given this time. Gently, he pressed the thick black glasses into the boy's palm.

"Hey, and don't let those other kids get to you like that. They're just jerks. They don't even know ya!"

_"Six-fingered freak!"_

The hurtful words that Crampelter had thrown at him echoed through his mind again, but for once Stanford listened to his brother. Maybe he was right after all. Maybe the only reason they said those mean things was just because they didn't know him that well. Maybe they could get to know him.

"Yeah," he smiled weakly, and glanced down at the glasses in his hand. Slowly─ as if entering an unfamiliar room for the very first time─ he perched them on his nose. They helped his far vision, but much like his jumbled emotions the world was still a bit out-of-focus.

"Thank you, Stanley."


	2. Twelve

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** {12 years old} **

The golden frame shimmered in the lamplight as he carefully positioned it on the wall, right above the dresser. It was their wall of honor. Dozens of cheap synthetic ribbons, plastic trophies, and award certificates littered this section of their bedroom already. Stanford had his academic awards, (spelling bees, honor roll, math Olympics— third place, school art competition— first place...), and Stanley just recently bagged second place in a boxing match against his peers. However, when it came to prestige, Stanford’s newest award knocked all of his others out of the water.

_Glass Shard Beach Middle School Science Fair— Grand Champion._

It was the first award he’d won that had a real  _weight_  to it, both figuratively and literally. Unlike all the plastic trophies and cheap certificates he’d received as a child, this award plaque was the real deal. Artisan paper, stamped embellishments, a frame coated with a thin layer of gold leafing, and even a signature from the mayor of Glass Shard Beach himself.

And he’d  _earned_ it.

Stanford found himself beaming when he caught his reflection in the glass of the plaque. His eyes were alight with a kind of glee he hadn’t experienced in quite a while. And sure, maybe his striped pajamas were too small for his rapidly growing frame, and his chaotic head of hair did defy gravity altogether like his mother joked, but somehow he appeared and felt more grown-up tonight than he ever had before. It was as if his double were a hopeful preview of his future, smiling down on him from the surface of the award. Admittedly, he’d never put much trust in the concept of destiny, (having a phone psychic as a mother did that to you), but for some reason he couldn’t shake the thought that this award meant something. Something special. A stepping point, perhaps.

He glanced behind, hearing movement. His brother now stood by their bunk bed, buttoning his pajama shirt. Stanford grinned, and leapt towards him with a newfangled enthusiasm.

"Hey, Stanley!” he called, and lazily fell backwards into his twin’s bottom bunk. The blankets enveloped him like a bun around a freshly grilled kosher dog as he lay there completely limp, arms spread and his legs dangling off of the bed. “Remember that job fair we had to make a presentation for last year? And how I couldn't decide _what_ I wanted to do as a career in the future, so I wrote about how I wanted to try a bit of everything instead?"

Stanley beamed toothily at the mention, revealing the thick silver brackets of his new braces. "How could I ever forget? At least I knew I wanted to be a treasure hunter. I even managed to squeak out a better grade than you on that project, for once! Wha- what about it?"

The golden yellow glint of the award frame sparkled in his peripherals, encouraging, strangely enticing...

"I think I know what I want to do now.” Stanford said— almost dreamily— and closed his eyes. Simultaneously, the blanket underneath him evaporated into weightlessness, like ice water on a hot summer’s day. All tension faded from his body as he fancied himself floating away from this town and this childhood and into one of the many nebulous, effulgent futures that existed within his imagination. Top of his field, respected by his colleagues, a proud father... “I think... I'll be a scientist,” he declared proudly. “I'm still not decided on what field of science, but at least I've narrowed it down a little bit, eh? Eh?”

No answer. His brother was suspiciously silent. And whenever he got to be like this, pranks and other nefarious deeds were almost certain. The corner of his lip curling up, Stanford opened an eye to steel a peak at what chaos Stanley plotted this time. He was met with a blurry recreation of his twin wearing  _his_  glasses, and raucous peals of laughter gave the rascal away in an instant. _So he wants to play this game, does he?_

Stanley wore the glasses upside down, on the furthest tip of his nose. Ridiculously, it made him look like a giant bug. A six-fingered hand darted out like a harpoon to grab them, but thanks to near-sightedness almost whacked him in the jaw. Stanley dodged the incoming attack like a pro, and then dragged a protesting Stanford into a tumbling heap on the floor. The bedspread and the sheets came with them. The two began wrestling each other, lanky limbs flailing every which way. Eventually, Stanley took the frames off of his nose and held them far above their heads. The older twin tried to reach for them, but found he couldn’t budge while pinned mercilessly to the shag carpet.

“Hey! Give ‘em back, you- you...” Stanford was interrupted by his twin’s next barrage before he could determine the appropriate insult. Alarmingly, Stanley decided to play the deadliest of all attacks—  _the monstrous tickling war_. And just as he feared he would, he went straight for the collarbones. “Common, St-Stan, this ain’t-  _isn’t_  fair!” he wheezed through laughter. “I can’t see anything right now.”

“Neither can I, normally. I say it’s fair as a square!”

“Nah, that’s your own fault for not wearing  _your_  glasses like you’re s’pposed to,” the eldest twin jibbed back, and managed to wedge his fingertips under his brother’s armpits.

Stanley yelped in surprise and lurched backwards. Using the distraction as an advantage, Stanford rolled on top of him and firmly pinned his arms to the floor, decisively ending the match. He pried the glasses out of his fist and leapt to his feet, snickering victoriously. It wasn’t often he got to claim triumph in one of their many wrestling matches. Humming in newfound satisfaction, he folded the frames and carefully laid them on the dresser, right next to the pair Stanley downright refused to wear. That doofus always complained they made him look like too much of a nerd, and  _“that’s your gimmick, Sixer.”_

Meanwhile, Stanley busied himself fixing his bedspread from the chaos they’d just reigned on top of it. Although for the record, it had to be stated that ‘making his bed’ only entailed throwing the sheets and covers on the mattress. 

"Hey, Ford,” he said suddenly, his normally cheeky demeanor ebbing into something more sincere. “About all your science stuff... Whatever you do in the future, I reckon you'll change the world."

Beaming, Stanford leapt up on the second rung of the bunk bed's ladder. He held onto the wooden beam firmly and allowed his body to hang there, tall, proud...

"Yeah," he breathed, vision glazed as he glanced once more at his golden frame. "Change the world. You know, maybe one day. Just maybe... I could invent a pill that cures every single disease that exists now or ever will? Or a new kind of rocket, even better than the lunar rockets NASA's developing now, that can take humans all the way to Mars? Or what if─" he gasped, eyes widening "─what if I were the one to make first contact with extraterrestrial life?"

"Whoa, that'd be amazing! You'd be a science superstar. Maybe you would even get one of 'em bell prizes, or somethin'."

The older twin snickered as he climbed into his bunk.

"You mean a _Nobel_ Prize, Stanley?"

"Yeah, that," he exclaimed, enthusiasm undeterred. "Imagine framin' one of those on your wall someday!"

His heart leapt at the idea that his younger twin brother imagined him standing among the fathers of modern science one day. Grinning from ear to ear, he allowed his lanky body to drape over the edge of his bunk until he could almost touch the tips of Stanley's hair, albeit upside down.

"And then after I win that Nobel Prize we'll sail out into the sunset together, the world's greatest scientist alongside the world's greatest treasure hunter!"

Stanley's face lit up like a warm summer day. "And we'll catch babes!"

"And international glory!" Stanford shouted, pumping his fists in the air (or, towards the ground if he considered his current orientation).

** "Go to _sleep!"_ **

Father. 

Like most of Father's utterances this was a command, and not a polite request. Both boys flinched at the sound of his gruff voice, rushed back into their own beds, and glanced warily at their bedroom door. Stanford felt his gut tumble as he listened closely for the unmistakable clatter of his father's sturdy shoes against the cheep linoleum floors outside their room. They were silent for an extended, unbearable span of time, but luckily the angry footfalls never came.

"Wow, he must be in a good mood tonight," his brother whispered from the bottom bunk. "Maybe he'll finally dream about somethin' that isn't dis'ppointment and nightmares." 

His brow rose, amused, when Stanley's own dumb jibe at Father made him break out in soft laughter. 

"Goodnight, ya knucklehead," Stanford said, and rolled his eyes.

"Goodnight, super nerd."

The room became dark as his twin switched off the lamp on the dresser adjacent to their bunkbed. Gently, Stanford rolled onto his back, buried himself in his blanket, and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

He dreamt about accolades, the open sea, and the stars that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention earlier... While we may still not know Stan and Ford's exact ages, I really like the timeline alexia-neo proposes here:  
> { http://alexia-neo.tumblr.com/post/139114059960/pines-family-detailed-timeline }
> 
> This timeline places the twins at 32 when Ford got sucked through the portal, and 62 when he returned. I'll be utilizing this timeframe in the story. Thank you to all my readers, and especially those who took time to leave nice little encouragements!


	3. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the angst.

****_____  
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**{17 years old}**

At first, what happened that fateful Friday evening was all anyone in Glass Shard Beach could talk about.

Neighbors, his classmates, any unfortunate pawn shop customers who─ thanks to Ma─ became privy to the Pines Family Catastrophe... The list went on. As far as Ford was concerned, every dappled star in the sky conspired to remind him of his deep-cut anger and regrets. 'Twas a deceitfully bitter outlook on the situation, sure, but at the pinnacle of his vexation the teen simply couldn't find it within himself to give a damn. 

He found it unthinkable how, within only hours, his own brother somehow managed to obliterate the organized, predictable progression he forged the next four years of his life into. Much like a vicious northern maelstrom erasing humanity's touch upon the shore, absolutely _nothing_ had survived the destruction! His chances at college were all but suspended now that his top and only choice rejected him as a full-ride candidate. (And he desperately _needed_ that scholarship to afford college in the first place!) If he were keenly honest with himself, the slow realization that these opportunities were now unobtainable visions sent an icy cold stake of betrayal into his very soul.

Nearing adulthood, it was only to be expected that Stanford Pines had dealt with his fair share of betrayal and disappointment.

But never in a lifetime could he have imagined that his brother─ his best friend, his confidant, the one he always trusted to support him through every endeavor, his own _twin!_ ─ would become the betrayer.

And it hurt.

 

...

 

Days passed like lightning, and as the town moved on to the next chunk of juicy gossip they stopped discussing the Pines Family's plight. And in an exasperating way, if were as if the surrounding community simply expected his life to return to normal. Back to class. Back to science club. Back to searching for colleges and scholarships, because "your intelligence is too high to waste in this dead-end beach town, Stanford." Conversely, his home life was nothing but dysfunctional. His parents were too busy arguing over _you-know-who_ to engage with him on any personal level anymore, so Ford took to locking himself in his room to study, read, and KEEP from stewing in his thoughts. 

Don't think about it. _Any of it._

Distract yourself.

He'd been attempting to finish another book that afternoon─ luckily a matter of pleasure, and not of scholastic duty─ but every moment he tried to lose himself within the lavish descriptions of the story, his attention diverted itself to the commotion in the next room and locked. The volume of his parents' voices ebbed and flowed like the choppy waves that crashed into the dock at high tide, and─ did his father just curse in Yiddish??

 _Funny_ _. Father kicked him out and suddenly everything's about him,_  Ford mused to himself bitterly, a grim demeanor casting a dark shadow over his face. Before, his father rarely gave his brother an ounce of his attention. Now the very concept of the younger son seemed enough to give the old man an ulcer, and _by god_ if he weren't going to kick up shit about it all damn day. 

He let out a heavy breath of frustration and roughly turned to the next page, despite not remembering what happened only paragraphs before. _Father talking for hours about him, and all but ignoring me. What an ironic reversal of roles._

Exasperated, he pressed his index and first middle finger to his pounding temple. _No, Ford. STOP! Don't think about it._  He inhaled deeply through his nose just like Ma used to show him when he was young, and attempted to close off every confusing sensation that swarmed within his mind. Ford fancied the chemical reactions that bounced between the synapses of his brain slowing to a crawl.

It worked for a little while. For those precious moments he let the landscape of his subconscious go entirely blank, like the textureless alabaster walls of the shop downstairs. He imagined the chair beneath him dissolving into atoms, and his body slowly lifting into the air, weightless. Instantly, every overbearing mental input disappeared from sight and attention. The extreme edges of his mind became inked in shades of blue, and he allowed himself to meditate. To unwind.

 _Don't think about it,_  he told himself again.

_Don't think about the anger, or the guilt._

Or about _him._

...

 

Two weeks more, and it were as if Ford's twin brother had never existed to begin with.

It somewhat hurt to admit, but he found the concept refreshing at first. After years of being lumped into a two-for-one package, he didn't see why anyone would blame him for desiring a taste of independence. It felt nice to finally be referred to by his full name over the intercom, instead of just one of the two "Pines twins." It felt nice to be able to talk to an acquaintance without the conversation suddenly turning to some dumb joke his brother pulled in class that day. It felt nice to finally existas an individual.

Ford found himself reflecting on this idea one morning as he dressed for school. After pulling a crisp collared shirt over his head and running his fingers through the mop of messy hair atop his head, his eyes absentmindedly drifted towards the mirror.

A sharp-eyed young man stared back, pupils dilating slightly as if surprised that Ford even noticed the figure in the looking glass. His brows furrowed minutely as he observed the precise peculiarities of his appearance. A few features were unique to him, like his cleft chin. Everything else he shared, such as the “Pines family nose,” and the strong jawline, and the unwieldy hair that (annoyingly) insisted upon curling upwards at the neck. For an instant he wondered what trueindividuality would feel like, with even his exact likeness his alone. The idea was so incredibly foreign to him that he found he couldn't quite wrap his mind around it, much like how he could never fathom _not_ having his sixth fingers. The notion felt alluring at times, but somehow...

Forbidden. 

Wrong.

Like how his parents purposely avoided mentioning _you-know-who_ to his face anymore.

Like how he'd walked in the living room last night to find Ma on call, only for her to immediately hang up and become dismissive and aloof when he asked who she was talking to. _And he damn well knew it was him._

All of it, it was... so, so wrong.

He was still angry, of course. And bitter. But that didn't deter him from realizing how messed up he and his family had become. Distantly, he acknowledged that he needed to let out his frustrations somehow. But how could he? According to his parents, his classmates, his school, the whole fucking  _town_ \- Stanley Pines no longer existed. Who _was_ there to talk to?! Not a goddamned soul.

Slowly, he reached towards his face and captured the wire frame of his glasses between two fingers. He took them off and daringly brought his gaze back towards the mirror. This time, his betrayer- the object of all his anger and confusion and guilt- stared back. His eyes grew wet.

Ford had never felt so lost.


	4. Twenty-five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was pointlessly difficult to write for some reason, and I have a sneaking suspicion that's because A) Ford was simply so... genuinely hopeful at this time in his life and I'm better at writing angst, and B) This entire thing is Ford being all in-his-head and introspective, as per heckin' usual.
> 
> In any case, I hope you all still enjoy this installment. 'Tis the calm before the storm.

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 **{25 years old}**  
  
A crisp November breeze ran fingers through the ends of Stanford Pines's hair as he approached the cozy a-frame cabin nestled between the towering evergreens. He exhaled deeply, a wide smile brightening his face and wisps of warm breath escaping his mouth in a fog.

 _Home,_ he marveled, the levity of the thought lifting his cheeks. _My home._

All in all, local lumberjack Dan Corduroy completed the project in a masterful fashion. He cut no corners when it came to the quality of the wood or assembly technique, was highly receptive to suggestions in the design, and even gave Ford what he endearingly referred to as "the bachelor's discount." Considering the young graduate had been living on nothing but the barest scraps of grant money for the past five months, (which was technically not allowed by the terms of the grant), he greatly appreciated the consideration. Honestly, he still felt a hint of shame for doubting the man’s capabilities towards the beginning. It was evident by now that Dan truly loved his work and considered it a livelihood.

The aspiring crypto-biologist could only hope he would discover the same sense of fulfillment in his own future work.

Lithely, he spun the key ring around his left index finger, his nerves nearly trembling in excitement. Booted feet quickly scaled the two steps to the front door. He pressed his right palm reverently against the wooden frame, tracing the bumps and ridges of the dark rings still visible through the thick varnish. The young man’s touch remained as gentle as a low midnight’s tide however, as if disturbing this structure might shatter this plane of reality and expose it as nothing more than yet another of his indulgent fantasies. When his eyes locked with their doubles, peering judgmentally out at him from the glass pane of the door's window, he suddenly began to wonder if this were all too good to be true. The soft smile that once tread over his lips began to fade.

The wind picked up again as looming anxiety hit its zenith, grappling with the edges of his long coat and scarf and forcing a shiver from him.  _Grant. The damned thing. Why must every festering worry that crosses my mind have to link back to that grant?_ he thought, gritting his teeth. He won it on sheer academic merit alone, didn’t he? It was _his!_ The only major requirement was that at term’s end he produce samples of his research. Proof, one might say. Proof that his benefactors’ money supported a worthwhile scientific cause.

_A **worthwhile** scientific cause. Heavy italics on ‘worthwhile.’_

While he sometimes lacked the appropriate social cues to thrive in collaborative environments, Ford was no idiot. He saw the way some members of the academic board scowled at him after he presented his proposal to study this region’s rumored paranormal inhabitants. What he considered indisputable evidence others might dismiss as sheer idiocracy, and _then_ where would he be? Stripped of his funding? Shamed by the entire scientific community? The new embarrassment of his family line?

He squeezed his eyelids shut and allowed the forest's essence to wash over his worries- of mortgages, family members on call, the stress of retaining his funding, the blistering uncertainty of the future, etc. The list inscribed in his mind stretched for miles. But as he smelt the earthy scent of wet dirt after a short lived Oregon rain shower, the unique aroma of freshly fallen pine needles...

Yes, he would be okay.

It was desire that led him to this strange backwoods town, and with a dash of luck and a heaping of scientific theory, this desire would translate into his research as well. He’d find a home here, and one day prove to everyone watching that _they were wrong about him_.

That everything in this world they considered _weird_ existed for a reason.

His heart burning warmly with a new confidence, Ford inserted the key into the lock and swung the door open. A shadow hung over the entryway, but not one of warning. No, instead- with its darkened, blank walls and pristine floors- his house felt like a beacon of infinite possibilities. An empty field notebook. A plausible, as-of-yet unproved theory.

It took a few moments for him to locate the light switch. Once the incandescent bulbs mounted in the ceiling warmed up and dispelled the entryway's shadows, he reached for his scarf and unwound it from around his neck. Humming contently, he slung the thick cloth over the coat hook on the back of the door.

As he surveyed his new home- preparing a mental map for where he might place various belongings and his scientific equipment- he noticed an unexpected piece of furniture. Propped against the far wall of the entryway was a full length, dark oak framed mirror. He found this rather strange, as he held no recollection of purchasing this. The hints of a smile played at the corner of his mouth as he realized who likely _did._

A slip of paper was taped to the edge of the frame. Ford removed it, and began to read:

_Welcome (officially) to the neighborhood, Ford! If it's the strange you're looking for, you'll fit in here like a glove. (A six-fingered one, obviously!) Good luck with all that weirdness research, and watch out for tiny woodsmen- they love nibbling on bare ankles. Also, don't fuss with any anti-woodsmen spray sellers. These guys are liars and just want your money! DROPKICKING is way more effective!_

_Best,_

_~"Boyish" Dan Corduroy_

Ford’s lips curled into a humored smirk as he scanned over the note one last time and slipped it into his pocket to keep for later reference. A surprisingly classy housewarming gift, from what he knew of Dan.

When he glanced up he was greeted by his ever-changing appearance, peering faithfully from the surface of the mirror. Only six months gone since he finally left the hell known as Backupsmore University with two PhDs, (one in evolutionary biology and the other in biochemistry & biophysics), and yet by some nebulous twist in causality he swears he’s matured more in this minuscule span of time than in the last five years. Perhaps— he theorized— this occurred because now, not only did he finally _look_ like an adult, but he finally felt like one, too.

When Stanford Pines entered college five years ago on the cusp of adulthood his cheeks were still pudgy, and his aspirations bordered on nigh-impossibility. He remembers feeling like a kid playing pretend in a father’s ill-fitting clothes on the first day of lecture... the overwhelming sense of panic that rattled his bones as a neighbor silently starred at his hands, at _him_... the suffocating anxiety of receiving his very first ‘D’ in a scientific focused class and wondering if he even belonged at this damned second rate college...

And yet he survived. He grew, in courage and in stature. He was an adult, unaided, with a mortgage and a degree and plenty of stubble lining the edges of his jaw. The tables were still turned against him, of course. He had a lot to prove, and the scientific world would be against him.

But as Stanford Pines proudly stood in front of that mirror with hands on hips, spine erect, and his trench coat billowing behind him... he figured he was  _just_  reckless enough to rise to the occasion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have no idea what Ford actually has degrees in, so I gave my best educated guess. It's my personal HC that he was only able to gain two of his 12 PhDs in college, and the rest originated beyond the portal in some of his calmer years. Evolutionary biology seems like a given, studying cryptids. Biochemistry/biophysics is admittedly a shameless imprinting of my own major upon this poor man... but he did do DNA testing on the shapeshifter, so it might just fit in.


End file.
